


Distraction

by orangefriday



Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, M/M, One-Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: "He needs to know if he'll be alone again, to notice everything, without Ian as a distraction. (He needs to know if Melanie will be Ian's distraction today.)"
Relationships: Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla, Ian Hecox/Melanie Moat, Kalel Cullen/Anthony Padilla





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the amazing [](https://ivyblossom.livejournal.com/profile)[ivyblossom](https://ivyblossom.livejournal.com/) and her BBC Sherlock fic, [The Progress of Sherlock Holmes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/173274?view_adult=true&view_full_work=true). Her way of narrative drove this fic and she gets all the credit (all, I say!). Read it if you watch Sherlock. Watch Sherlock if you don't!

It’s funny what Anthony notices when he’s alone. The crooked faded lines of the freeway as he speeds down it. The way the sun hits the right side of his face, unobstructed. The extra space between him and the passenger door. The ringing silence in his ear. No chatter buzzing with loud sudden outbursts. And the warm hand, pressing lightly – sometimes boldly, sometimes shyly – against his thigh; absent. It isn’t there.

Not today, because Ian is with Melanie.

So Anthony drives in stillness. Just the hum of the engine and the whoosh of the wind hitting the car as he accelerates. No radio because he’s too busy concentrating on all the things he’s noticing when he’s alone. He doesn’t push the button, doesn’t touch it and let the sound drown out his thoughts. He’s too busy thinking, waiting, and anticipating the moment he goes home. He’s visualizing what he should be doing once he’s back in the living room, kitchen, computer room, Ian’s bedroom (their bedroom).

He thinks back to this morning before they left. Before they parted ways. One going to the studio to finish some audio recordings – without the other. Another off to meet somebody else they hadn’t seen for months – again, without the other.

Anthony’s finger floats above the space between his first finger and thumb. He’s driving with one hand but the other is ghosting the place where Ian’s thumb had held onto just this morning (even after hours later, his body still feels it). It burns a little as he remembers those fingers squeezing round it, gripping and leaving (with reluctance).

“I probably won’t be home tonight,” Ian had said just before taking Anthony’s hand, pressing – boldly, this time. “I don’t know why Melanie likes to stay in hotels.”

Because she’s polite. Because she knows not to intrude. And probably because she thinks she knows. Anthony isn’t sure. (The look on her face that one time they weren’t careful enough. Or at least, when Anthony wasn’t careful enough. Ian didn’t even notice.)

“All right.” Ian’s hand retreats back to his side. Anthony’s hand shivers. “She probably just wants you to herself.” He smiles and Ian smiles back. There are words behind those smiles. Jokes. Truths. Both.

It takes a lot for Anthony to not pick up his phone and text Ian, call Ian, press the speed dial and hear the tone. Wait for the click and the musky tones of his voice, saying, “Hello?”

No. There’s no reason to bother Ian. So Anthony keeps on driving, exiting the freeway and turning into the familiar streets of residential Sacramento. The terrain of yellow dry death trades in for the lush of green tall bushes and trees behind wooden fences. He notices the speed bumps are painted yellow. Funny. Were they that colour before? The memory of mock screams of terror and laughter into a camera puts a smile on his face.

*

Five A.M. Ian’s not home yet. Anthony shifts in his nest of blankets, impossibly cold and hot at the same time. Most of him encased in his self-cocoon made by a blue comforter (Ian’s favourite colour). Only his leg dangling off the edge, ready to get up and go. Go where? To Ian, of course, who isn’t home yet, Ian who is with Melanie. (Are they together in their own nest of stark white hotel sheets? Lying together and taking each other’s bodies and learning again after months of not seeing each other? Are they a tangle of heaving limbs, sweaty damp skin and are they shrouded by the smell of sex?)

Anthony’s thoughts swim with exhaustion and blurry anxiousness. He swings his cold leg around in the air-conditioned air and waits. Waits for Ian. Waits for the grind of the garage, for the vibrating tremble of the engine and the opening and closing of doors that will lead him home. He waits for a long time, it seems, until there’s morning light fluttering over his closed eyelids, making him see peach red and feel fire.

Then, the careful pad of footsteps and the dip in the mattress. The scratchy sound of fingernails against irritated facial hair. And a sigh. A sigh that both Anthony and Ian breathe when side and thigh touch, radiating warmth that’s hotter than the spring light filtering through the blinds. Fingers slide across blankets and find the others. Press and touch. It’s shy this time as the same fingers smooth through his hair, playing with the fine ends that rest on his neck.

Anthony pretends he’s still asleep, relishing in the feel of Ian’s fingers rubbing his scalp, his neck, his ears and his cheek. Ian’s leg is right up against his hip with the blanket and jeans between them.

“Wake up, douchebag,” Ian whispers, close to his ear, air puffing out sweet and hot against Anthony’s skin. Ian always has to add an insult to everything. Always has to turn everything into a joke. To keep the mood light, he says. Don’t take everything so seriously, he argues. He would smile and laugh at the most oddest things, the most serious, and the direst of situations. Maybe not immediately, but eventually.

And Anthony is okay with that. Is glad of it. It gives him permission to laugh, too, when he feels like he shouldn’t. It makes him laugh. Ian makes him laugh. The edges of his lips perk up. An almost-smile.

“Anthony,” Ian says. A kiss right under the ear. Another, on his jaw. Slow and deliberate. The next, closer to his slightly upturned corners of his mouth and Anthony turns, ‘wakes up’ and catches those lips.

The taste of Ian. The feel of his stubble under his top and bottom lip. The way he breathes through his nose as if the kiss gives him oxygen to stay alive. Teeth. Teeth biting. Tongues pulsing with heat.

(Ian smells like her. Of hotel disinfectant and sugary perfume. There’s the flavour of her in his tongue as it probes open Anthony’s lips. It’s an odd taste. It’s foreign and unwelcomed.)

Anthony pulls apart and buries his face in Ian’s neck, trying to pull out what smells like Ian (and what doesn’t). A hand on his shoulder pushes him to face his friend (Can he call Ian _just_ a friend?). Ian looks dishevelled, breathless, and tired. Not much sleep then, last night. (Did they have sex? Did they declare their misery and longing for the other by pleasuring each other? Did Ian’s body miss Melanie’s the way Anthony’s is always craving, always humming, always tingling for Ian’s?) Ian’s finger traces the curve of Anthony’s collarbone and he feels liquid shivers pervade his skin.

“Lots of editing to do today, man,” Anthony says, voice groggy and words slurred. He needs reassurance. It’s a question without the right words. Sounds like a statement, but it’s a suggestion, an inquiry, and a tentative invitation. But he wants an answer, in case this is it for today and he won’t see Ian for another few hours, or until the next. He needs to know if he’ll be alone again – to notice everything – without Ian as a distraction. (He needs to know if Melanie will be Ian’s distraction today.)

Ian is still panting, eyes half-lidded and clouded, almost cross-eyed as he stares at Anthony, unseeing. He’s distracted. He nods, lets out a barely audible, careless, “Whatever” before taking to Anthony’s lips again. He shifts so that it’s not thigh against side, but crotch against hip. Ha, Ian is so easy. So eager. He’s already hard, just from a kiss. A kiss and that’s all it takes. (Anthony wonders if Melanie works the same magic) and he can’t say too much because the thought of Ian’s instant arousal makes his own dick warm with excitement. His boxer briefs are too tight now.

(So they didn’t have sex, after all.)

The day becomes warmer even as blankets and clothes seem to dissipate into the dark corners of the room that the sun doesn’t touch.

Today, Anthony will be Ian’s distraction.

*

Melanie and Ian. Kristen and Anthony. Double date.

The girls are up ahead, turning left into a store. Sugar Shack Boutique, it reads, as Anthony looks at the pink of the building and the cursive sign on the window. He feels the wallet in his pocket and secretly hopes he doesn’t have to play the generous boyfriend today. Ian, right on his tail, lets out a quiet groan that only Anthony can hear. He can just picture Ian huffing a breath and letting his head fall back in annoyance as he walks behind him.

Whose idea was it again to go on a double date? Oh right, Ian’s. Yet he’s been the one complaining all day. He’s like a child sometimes.

“I thought we’d be watching a movie or something,” Ian says to him (just to him) when they enter the quaint shop. It’s clothing for women. Typical. Rows upon rows that seems impossible for such a small place to fit within its cracking coral walls. Their girlfriends are already at work, shifting through hangers of garments and pulling out possible picks for each other to try. They’re giggling, laughing, looking at the boys with a hint of an apologetic pleading. Anthony smiles at them and leans his elbow over a rack.

“This is boring,” Anthony confesses. They’d been in several shops down Midtown already. All interesting, but not interesting to them. For the girls, of course, because they’re similar; and they’re girls, after all. Anthony doesn’t care too much about clothes and odd trinkets and clever over expensive objects to decorate the home.

He looks over at Ian, catching those sky blue orbs in his earthy brown ones. Ian looks just as bored as he is but the gaze sweeps that boredom away for a second. It’s replaced with something that jolts some kind of ungodly reaction within Anthony’s chest. It fills him up and makes his breath hitch. The grin, that knowing grin from Ian reddens Anthony’s cheeks. It’s like an insult again, a silent, challenging, “Hah, bitch, you look funny and I bet I could make this funnier”. Anthony looks away, not letting Ian have all the satisfaction.

An index finger slides underneath the waistline of Anthony’s jeans and hooks at the fabric, tugs a little and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from making a sound. A protest? A pleasant yelp of surprise? He settles for a grunt and a wiggle of his hips. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ian’s grin turning into a pleased smirk. Asshole. He takes Ian’s hand and holds it, squeezing hard as punishment and just slightly rubbing the inside of the palm. Feel the lines in them. Want to trace them. This time, Anthony smirks as he watches the curve of Ian’s neck flush.

He looks up to see Melanie, a few racks away, looking.

Anthony drops Ian’s hand.

*

(Why not just break it off? Why not just end these relationships? Why not just be together?)

(Because) there’s uncertainty there. In every turn of the head, every glance, every finger touching skin or hand caressing back, there is uncertainty. Kisses feel certain, concrete, _real_. Those are not uncertain. It’s weird, Anthony knows, but he just can’t put a finger on what this is. He doesn’t know what anything they’re doing is. Maybe they’re friends fooling around, people experimenting or lovers.

Sometimes, Anthony likes to pretend that they’re lovers.

(Melanie loves Ian. Kristen says she loves Anthony. But they’re not lovers.)

Like now, when they’re in front of the computer, writing a script and planning out a sketch (or trying to). Their hands are entangled in each other and knees pressed together. Sometimes a hand snakes alongside the inside of Anthony’s thigh, feeling the seams of the jeans and moving back and forth along the line. The touch is shy as it slithers up towards the center of Anthony’s pants, but suddenly grows a little bolder when Anthony encourages it, humming for it to go on as he places his own hand over Ian’s.

“Really should get this done,” Anthony says, because they should. “The crew’s going to want to know the next idea and when to start filming.”

He feels Ian nod beside him but his gaze is not on the computer screen like Anthony’s. It’s lingering on their two hands that are folded around each other, moving, feeling, touching. Pressing, pressing downwards on Anthony’s growing erection. A sigh. From who? Anthony doesn’t know.

Uncertainty seems to have flown out the window when Anthony hears a zip. A rush of cold air precedes before delving fingers push down on Anthony’s boxer covered dick. Another hand is placed on the nape of his neck, fingertips pressing and pulling at the same time until his lips are guided to Ian’s open mouth. Hum again. The vibration of the sound travels down his ears and right to the spot where Ian’s palm completely covers his arousal.

Anthony doesn’t know how he manages to breathe and take in air. His body seems to be working tenfold past normality that every nerve dances with exhilaration from every touch, every exhale of breath, every inhale and every sound. His chest wants to burst open and his ears want to bleed from the frantic beating of his heart.

Delirious, Anthony becomes overwhelmed the moment Ian, somehow, frees his penis and wraps his hand around him. All his blood and maybe even his heart, jumps down and fills Ian’s hand, hoping to catch every crevice of that palm, every line and every inch of skin. It’s amazing how much one can feel in moments like this. It seems almost inhuman, animal-like, feral – this desire to be touched, to be felt, to be kissed, to be taken. By Ian.

(He’s never felt like this with Kristen. Does Ian feel like this with Melanie? With him?)

A thumb rubs the tip of Anthony’s cock and Anthony almost loses it. How easy _he_ is. Fluid leaves a trail as thumb and Ian’s other four fingers glide along the shaft of his dick, holding tight, but not too tight. Just right as it goes up, flicking the top, twisting as it goes down again. Pleasure. Ecstasy. White hot heat rising up and up and out of his throat as Anthony lets out a moan. He hears Ian, too, saying his name against his skin as his mouth works Anthony’s neck. Biting. Sucking. Kissing.

(What will Kristen think if she sees those marks?)

He’s there, almost there. He’s gripping Ian’s wrist, digging his nails in Ian’s skin and the table shakes as he holds onto the edge of it. He feels like he’s falling, colours bursting behind his closed eyelids. But he doesn’t want to see swirling iridescent pigments. He wants to see Ian’s blue.

So he opens his eyes as he comes.

Certainty in those orbs of clear sky.

Then, a buzz. It goes off one, two, three times before they both realize it’s Ian’s phone on the table. A picture appears with words underneath. Anthony can hardly make it out past the haze of his released lust.

(Melanie calling.)

Then, the blue is cloudy again.

*

“Where’s Ian?”

Melanie at the door. Looking nervous but determined.

“He had to go somewhere.”

Oh? Anthony nods. Where?

“Then…” he trails off, staring down at her and not knowing what to do. He decides to let her in. She enters and takes two steps in the house. She looks uncomfortable and waits for Anthony to close the front door.

He should offer her a snack, or a drink, or a seat to be in. Anthony doesn’t know what to do when he’s alone with Melanie. Not anymore. He used to, when she lived here for a while and nothing uncertain swam between Ian and his atmosphere.

(That was when she noticed. Why she left. Why she moved three thousand miles across the country. Uncertainty was there already.)

She’s too nice to be straightforward so maybe they’ll take part in this dance. _Do you need anything?_ Anthony will say. She’ll decline. She’ll ask, _How is everything going? How is Smosh? Busy?_ As if they’re out on the boulevard and had run into each other. Long-time-no-see. Almost-strangers.

But it seems, not today. Not today because Melanie is in their home (where uncertainty had first risen).

(“We need to talk about this,” she had said, years ago, gesturing to the air around them – to everything. “About whatever _this_ is.”)

“I care about him. I really do,” she starts, completely out of nowhere, almost as if to herself. Her gaze is straight but it looks to the left of Anthony. “I know you do, too.”

(This conversation is familiar.)

He doesn’t say anything and waits for her to continue. Confused. Apprehensive.

“It’s been four years,” Melanie says. He notices her hands clenched at her side. “You’d think that’s a long time with someone.”

Anthony thinks it’s okay to speak. “Yeah, it is.” Smiles, even, because she’s not.

Her sight quivers, just the slightest, just like her tense fingers below them. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out fast enough, as if she’s suddenly lost her words as her eyes fill with glistening tears. Anthony doesn’t know what to do now.

(The conversation is unfamiliar now. With the tears and the hopeless frustration. It was calm anger and even forgiving before.)

Anthony takes a step towards her, hand outstretched to give comfort, to say _stop, what’s wrong? What’s going on?_ He’s still trying to implement the dance. “Melanie… Are – are you okay –”

“It’s a long time, Anthony, to know someone.” Her words tremble with her bottom lip, spill out like the tears that stream down her cheeks. She’s so easy. Breaking right before Anthony’s eyes. (She wasn’t like that before.) “And to realize, you didn’t really know them at all.”

He’s still trying to start the tempo, get their feet moving: “Wha – what are you talking about, Mel?”

Her indirect gaze pounces on him all of a sudden. Rage. Fury. Anger. Sadness. All there. All for him. (Familiar, once again.)

But it’s smothered away by an intake of breath. Sudden. Blink of the eye. Strange. The back of her hand wiping away the evidence of tears. Only the redness in her eyes and her nose gives anything away. Otherwise, the smile is convincing. (Just like the one she had when she left.)

“You should talk to Kristen,” Melanie says. She’s composed now. No embarrassment at all. Anthony is so confused. “Make some time for her, Ant. Talk to her. Tell her. She deserves it.”

(“ _I_ deserve to know _the truth_ ,” she had said. “Tell _me_.”)

Before Anthony can say anything else, question anything, or make an incoherent sound of absolute confusion, Melanie is taking those two steps back and out of the house. Gone. Door closes behind her. Firm.

(Familiar.)

(No, identical) because he gets a text from Ian.

*

Tears. Shivering shoulders. Shuddering breath. Sniff, snort, embarrassed laughter. All the way home in the car.

(Did Ian really care about her that much?)

Ian doesn’t even notice the hand on his knee, or the light squeeze Anthony gives him. Comfort, he hopes. Reassurance, he ensues. But Ian takes none of it.

“I’m fine,” Ian says when Anthony asks. Anthony waits. Waits for the insult. Waits for the joke, the comeback. For the mood to lighten because it’s terribly heavy.

But Ian doesn’t say a word after that. Only looks out the window at the golden plain along the freeway.

*

“Hello?”

“Melanie?”

Anthony manages to get a hold of her after two weeks and half a dozen calls of “Do you know Melanie’s new number?” and “Okay, I’ll call them and ask”.

Finally.

“Anthony? How did you…” she starts. There’s a clatter of plates in the background a dog yelping. (She got a dog. Replacement for Ian? Probably. Ian has nothing to replace her.) “Never mind. Something wrong? How’s Ian?”

Anthony sighs, sudden anger filling him up. She’s caused this. Caused everything that Ian is feeling and what is not feeling right now. “He’s not okay.” Blunt, matter-of-fact, straight to the point (unlike her).

A faucet running. She’s doing the dishes, not even sitting down to take this phone call seriously.

“He’ll be fine,” she says. Dismissive. The bubble of restrained embers almost bursts inside of Anthony.

“How would you know?” It takes a lot of effort and heavy breathing to tone down his voice. Ian is in the other room, writing the script like a robot. He’s not distracted. He’s oddly focussed in everything. His ADHD seemingly to disappear along with everything that was uncertain between them (everything Anthony misses).

She changes the subject: “Have you talked to Kristen?”

Livid. What does that have anything have to do with Ian? Bite down and seethe, “About what?”

“You need to talk to her.”

Fine. He’ll change the subject, too. “ _You_ need to talk to Ian. Call him. Text him. Anything.”

Pause on the other line. The faucet stops running. “Why? I thought you’d be able to…” She seems to like speaking in trailing words and ambiguous sentences with double, hidden yet _obvious_ meanings. She’s never plainly honest (like him).

(But is he _really_ honest?)

“I’m not his girlfriend.”

She laughs. _Laughs_. “Neither am I.”

So mad. So angry. So concerned for Ian. He hangs up, doesn’t even care. Waste of his time. Enraged. At Melanie. At Ian.

At himself.

*

Ian.

Ian sleeping alone in his bedroom (not _their_ bedroom anymore). Still. Silent. No snoring. He always snores.

He really loved her.

Really misses her. He’s hurting.

Anthony is hurting.

Was he not enough?

*

Odd that Anthony spends more time with Kristen when Ian wants to be alone (and probably wants nothing, _less than nothing_ to do with Anthony). He finds himself enjoying their dates and her company. He doesn’t find her laugh annoying (that much) or her stories plain and boring (anymore). He kisses her and gets lost. Wants to kiss her and hold her and have sex with her. Her supple soft body, breasts and the smooth arch of her waist are completely different from Ian. It’s a good distraction.

Ian is distracted, too. By work. By a million video ideas that bounce off the walls and through his fingers and into his laptop. Sometimes he’ll pick writing over video games. He’ll stop in the middle of a bite of pizza or a burrito and go to write. His ideas are funnier, more dramatic and entertaining. Smosh is thriving because he’s dedicated now – more than before. (Because they can go through an editing session without having to touch each other, feel the other’s hair and lips. Or hold each other until they’re shivering, shuddering, _trembling_ with want and need.)

Ian doesn’t need Anthony as a distraction anymore.

*

“Are you two okay?” Barry, their manager, asks one day during a meeting. They’re discussing new channel ideas and article topics. New staff are being introduced since the whole brand is expanding. They’ve been working non-stop for weeks, always writing, always filming and always editing. Sometimes Anthony forgets – forgets those wary lingering feelings that used to creep up on him all the time. (Has Ian forgetten?)

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Anthony says and looks at Barry in question. “What?”

Barry shakes his head, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Nothing. You two just seem… off.”

Anthony glances at Ian who is speaking with Mari. Animatedly. Enthusiastic. Same.

But then he looks at Anthony and it’s _different_.

“We’re fine,” he says again, noticing, because since he’s been alone, he has noticed: everything’s different. “Just fine.”

Is it really _just fine?_

Anthony doesn’t know.


End file.
